The music pulsed through the entire room—dull and way too loud, as if it was made to drown out thoughts—or memories. Your throat burned from the cheap alcohol you had downed over the last half hour. It was an attempt to kill the queasy feeling in your chest. But instead of disappearing, it only got heavier.

You had smiled, danced, laughed—or at least tried to. Your friends meant it good, really. They just wanted you to think about something else for once. Two months had passed since the breakup, and you really thought you were finally learning to breathe again without everything reminding you of him.

Until you saw him.

Heeseung.

He sat there, right in the middle of the room, like a prop in some terrible movie. As if the whole thing was staged. His legs spread casually, a half-full drink in one hand. And on his lap—a girl you didn’t recognize. Not that her face mattered. All you could see was her hand on his chest, his arm tightly around her waist, his fingers slowly gliding over her ass.

You froze. The cup in your hand trembled slightly, but you forced yourself not to drop it. Your heart thudded dully against your ribs, every movement he made a stab, an echo of what used to be.

He laughed. Not your laugh. Not the one you used to call “ours.” It sounded foreign. Cold.

You wanted to look away. Honestly, you did. But your eyes stayed glued to the scene like a car crash you just couldn’t turn away from. Maybe because it wasn’t just jealousy. It was that bitter mix of disappointment, anger, self-hate, and a faint trace of hope still clinging to life somewhere deep inside you—even though you should know better by now.

And then—as if he felt your gaze—he looked up.

Your eyes met.

Just for a second.

But that was all it took to knock you completely off balance.

No reaction on his face. No surprise. No smile. No pain. Nothing. Like you were just another shadow on the wall—meaningless, easy to ignore.

You turned around, nearly tripping, pushing your way through the crowd toward the balcony. Cold air hit your face, and you inhaled deeply. But even out here, he was still there—not physically, but in your head, everywhere. You could hear his laugh, feel his hands, remember the words you had thrown at each other in that last fight.

“What happened to us?” you had screamed. “You. You happened,” he had replied. And that was the last thing he said before walking away.

A click behind you. The balcony door. Footsteps.

You turned slowly—and there he was.

Heeseung.

He looked sober, at least more sober than you, and slightly annoyed—like someone who had to clear up something he didn’t really care about.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, as if you were the one who had just barged into his life, not the other way around.